Tuesday, January 24, 2012

I believe I've made it abundantly clear in previous posts that I love the fact that we’ve reached a point in society where we no longer require
face-to-face contact for most social interaction and business transactions.
Unfortunately, there are still those moments when we must be in the same room
as another human being, look them in their stupid face, and communicate using
actual audible words (although sadly people do articulate things like “Oh Em
Gee” and “Ell Oh Ell”—and regardless of how bad we want to bitch-slap them, we
know what they mean).

Perhaps you feel the need to shove future poop into your
head without messing up your kitchen. Maybe your local supermarket hasn’t yet
evolved to self-checkouts, or worse--they’re broken, so you must stare longingly
at the glorious innovation in antisocial technology while the real-life cashier
mumbles on and on about how she didn’t realize a person could consume so much
vodka. (Mind your own fucking business, cashiers—okay? Vodka, toilet paper, and
catnip are perfectly normal shopping
lists, and with a mustache like that and a nametag reading “Suzie” I don’t
think you’re in any place to judge.) Or, just maybe, no one will pay you
thousands of dollars to write poorly punctuated poop puns so you’re forced to
work a stupid customer service job where you deal with the shining shit-stains
of society on a daily basis. Whatever the reason, nearly all of us (except for
those lucky enough to be full-time shut ins—you lucky bitches) get hurled into
the stimulating sphere of small talk with strangers on a daily basis.

Normally I brew my own coffee at home. Partly because I’m
not a pretentious douchebag, but mostly because I’m poor. But I’ve been forced
to do a lot of traveling lately, which means stopping occasionally to pick up a
cup of extreme excrement accelerant on the go. It seems that the unfortunate
people working the drive up window at these scam shops are required to attempt
small talk with you while you are waiting for your overpriced, unpronounceable cup
of flavored laxative. I assume this is an attempt to bolster tips, but it’s
more likely to make me defecate in that presumptuous vessel of deception they
call a tip jar. (I already paid $6 for a black coffee, why the hell would I tip
the person being paid to pour it? I’m sure their corporate captors pay them
jack shit to sling their overpriced poop juice, but I don’t think the solution is begging for
handouts from pompous-ass caffeine junkies.) Anyway, the next time one of these
drive-thru delegates asks me where I’m headed ‘on a night like this’ they’re likely to get all the
gritty details of my impending clown orgy in a port-a-potty. (Let the mental
image sink in for a minute, then decide if you really want to read this blog anymore.) Leave me alone, people. All
I want to do is stare straight ahead and listen to the radio while you’re
getting my shit. And before you call me a snob, I believe my hatred for
drive-thru discussion stems from my daylighting job as a bank teller in the
drive up window. Trust me-- if people really wanted to chit chat, they’d get
their lazy ass out of their fucking car, don’t you think?

Then there’s what you make small talk about. It’s almost always the weather. The fucking WEATHER. Because
no matter what, it’s always up to something! That rascally, unpredictable force
of nature! I just can’t imagine what it’ll do next! Tee hee!!! Here’s the deal:
if it’s sunny in July, raining in April, or snowing in January I don’t consider
it worthy of discussion with every shithead I encounter. In fact, unless a
giant anus opens up in the sky and we’re bombarded with torrential turdsicles
or a diarrhea deluge, I don’t believe it deserves any dialogue at all. If we
stop having weather altogether, that would also be an acceptable time for a
conversation. But until then don’t irritate my ears with that “Can you believe
this weather we’re having?” shit. I write a blog dedicated to poop; I will fling feces at you. Don’t think I’m
above it.

This would normally be the point where I try to wrap the post
up by bringing the whole thing around, but fuck it. Silence is bliss.

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

We're going to have to break from the poop puns for a minute to acknowledge the passing of a dear member of the Turd Mountain family. If you follow Turd Mountain on Facebook you have probably already heard of the passing of my fecally friendly feline. If you're not following us on Facebook, what the hell?!? Show some love, people. I base all my feelings of self worth on those little blue thumb-up icons, so quit being a jackass and follow the Turd Mountain page. Dicks.

Anyway, I cleaned this cat's poop every day (or every other day, if I was feeling lazy) for the past 3 1/2 years and I feel he deserves his obituary to be read by at least 4 people, which is why I'm posting it here.

Dearly Departed Defecator

Randall Graves Koter Dee (aliases Randall Grandall, Chester
the Molester), age 3.75, unexpectedly ascended to the great cat nip mountain in
the sky on January 10th, 2012. Randall was known for his agility
despite his girth; he could easily launch his 15-lbs of blubbery beautifulness
over a 4 foot animal gate if there was something exciting to play soccer with
on the other side.

However, Randall was probably best known for being an
equal-opportunity human molester. He inappropriately pawed at everyone he met,
regardless of race, religion, creed, gender, or sexual orientation.

While not much of a cuddler, Randall was frequently found
nibbling on his owners while they slept. It is generally believed his dream was
for his humans to die in their home so that he could eat them, but he refused
to comment on the theory.

Found abandoned under a semi-truck trailer at the age of 3
months, Randall was taken in by Kimmy Dee and quickly accepted into her world
of weird and misfit pets. His defining characteristic as a child was his
uncanny ability to let a silent-but-deadly toxic cloud out of his anus every
time he was picked up by a human. While he outgrew this pungent phase, it
cemented his place in the hearts and noses of the Dee family forever.

Randall was preceded in death by his feline stepbrothers Bubba (who made him appear thin) and his sickly little buddy Captain Marley
Lucas Sugar Mittens. Also preceding him to the ash pile errr pearly gates was
his first dog buddy, K.J.

Randall is survived by his elderly step brother Jebus,
11, annoying little step-sister Bubble, 9 months, and the dog he loved to taunt
when he was crated but hid from when he was loose, Tyson, 2.

From left: Jebus, Randall, Bubble.

In lieu of flowers, the Dee family is requesting donations
be made to Randall’s favorite charity: Fat Cats Need Love Too.

A private service will be held this evening, where all
members of the Dee family will roll around in cat nip on the living room floor
and then pass out on our backs with our legs and arms up in the air in tribute
to Randall, who preferred to sleep off a good buzz that way.

Tuesday, January 3, 2012

A few months ago, I was honored to be asked to write a guest blog post for Psycho-Noir, the literary lair of critically acclaimed author Heath Lowrance. With all the “Best of 2011” lists he’s made this season I really should hand over the King Shit of Turd Mountain crown to him, but this is a dictatorship and it will take a mob of violent feces flingers to get me to come off this crown. I earned it. I claimed it fair and square on a Google-powered blog site. Suck on that, accomplished author. Pfffffft. Anyway once I confirmed with him that he knew he was actually asking me and not the amateur porn star with the same alias, I was happy to oblige.

Here was my guest appearance at the used-to-be-classy-until-I-showed-up Psycho-Noir in all its putrid glory:

If you want to regenerate some of the brain cells you carelessly flush down the crapper every time you visit the ‘Mount, you should probably follow that blog. But for now tilt your head over the toilet and pay attention to me goddammit.

UPDATE: Kimmy Actually Got Her Kindle.

I did it. Sold my soul to the dark side… Submitted to the technology terrorists… Whatever. I bought a fucking Kindle. Shut up, like you’ve never been a total hypocritical jackwad. And now that I’ve had it for two entire days, I believe I’m ready to drop some serious knowledge nuggets on the Fecal Faithful about what it’s really like to read via robot.

I didn’t just get any Kindle, I got the KING SHIT of Kindles. And I have to say… this thing is fucking AWESOME. I think it’s even equipped to give a deep tissue massage complete with happy ending, but I haven’t read the user’s guide yet. I’ve been too busy dicking around on Facebook and downloading free apps with the devilish little contraption.

And that’s the beauty of it. I can waste time doing things other than reading with this thing. I thought books were the shit and all, but I can’t fling foul-tempered fowl at a tower of unsuspecting green pigs with a bound stack of typewritten paper, now can I?

Another badass Kindle Fire feature: You can stream video; even Netflix. Now you can watch TV while pretending to read. And you can hold the thing as close to your face as you want. Did you hear that kids? Tell your mom it’s a newfangled book and she’ll leave you the hell alone. Suck on that all you silly teachers who said TV will rot your brain. If you’re watching Spongebob with your reading device, I believe you enter a whole new realm of smartness. Squidward on steroids, bitches.

(Note: If you are actually a kid and reading this blog, you really shouldn’t. Go play some violent video game or something. It’s much healthier. After all, I swear a lot here. You can probably get a Grand Theft Auto app for your electronic reading device.)

My FAVORITE feature so far though has to be that the Kindle is so anti-printed material that it didn't come with a manual. No, all you need to know to properly operate the thing is loaded on the device as a .PDF file. How cool is that?!? Now if the fucker stops working, all you have to do is turn it on and read the troubleshooting guide. Genius!

If you’re really into books, you’ll be happy to know the Kindle Fire also comes preloaded with Oxford English Dictionary. This allows you to look up the definition of irony as you’re watching gay porn through your WiFi connection in HD on your “intelligent reading machine.” And it has a dual-core processor; I’m too techtarded to know what the hell that means, but it sounds really important to have while you peruse the modern classics of literary greatness. Or a donkey show.

In conclusion, if you are one of the few people in the world who still doesn’t have one (people are eating them in third world countries and shitting out Ipods for fuck’s sake) you should get a Kindle. Or a similarly equipped device. I don’t recall Amazon contributing any advertising dollars to this blog, so buy the competition. Fuck them. Anyway, get one; then you’ll have a million more excuses to never read a damn book.

So I've been really busy being a lazy turd lately (which can be extremely fucking exhausting), but I didn't want either of my fecal...

If for some reason Kimmy hasn't offended the shit out of you, feel free to follow her on Facebook. Don't bother looking on Twitter, she gave up on that shit once she discovered it didn't mean anything sexual. Bastards.